


keep your heart open (i'll keep mine open, too)

by orphan_account



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: (Ish) - Freeform, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hospitals, M/M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 07:48:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10566843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Babe doesn't fall asleep in his foxhole alone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> (the golden trio fic nobody asked for lmao)
> 
> this is solely based upon the hbo war series.
> 
> sorry for any typos.
> 
> title taken from "prey" by the neighbourhood.
> 
> EDIT: i took out a scene because i realized it was disrespectful and inappropriate. my apologies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bastogne’s the kind of place they think they’d find when the world was ending. With the constant shelling and hunger gnawing at their ribs, it might as well be. The cold seeps in and saps the world of color, until there’s nothing but shades of dark and stark, stark white.

They lose some of their best men: Julian; Hoobler; Guarnere; Toye; Muck; Penkala; Compton. Malarkey’s left holding the broken end of a rosary and the world seems that much emptier, that much colder, that much sharper.

At the end of the world, where dead men stop bleeding at night because of the freezing temperature instead of the bodies running out of blood, there’s only warmth in the company they keep. The only men who find themselves completely and utterly alone in a foxhole are already dead, half-buried under snow and mud caked with splintered wood and shrapnel. It’s like this across the line, stretched too thin, on its last limb. Even the medics don’t keep much to themselves afterwards.

Babe starts to fall asleep in his foxhole by himself. He doesn’t mean to. It’s too damn cold, he doesn’t have the energy to call or get up and find someone else, and he hasn’t slept ever since Malarkey got that far-off look in his eye. He hears the crunch of snow and sits up, blinking his eyes blearily against the snow falling in his eyes. It’s Liebgott sliding into the foxhole next to him, ungracefully, sidling up next to him with no attempt to give him or the Philly boy personal space.

“The fuck you doin’ out here by yourself?” It doesn’t sound like a question. It’s something along the lines of an accusation, something that peels away the stony glare on Joe’s face and reveals something else underneath. “We were looking for you.”

Babe blinks. That isn’t what he was expecting to hear. Who the fuck is _we_?

“Hot chow,” Joe explains, and then thrusts a cup of something foul-smelling but undeniably hot into his half-frozen hands. It hurts, he realizes, to feel his fingers thaw as he tightly grips the cup and takes a sip. He’s too tired and too cold to wince at the taste.

Babe starts to nod off again when he feels Joe get up. He opens his mouth—to say what, he’s not sure—but then he feels a hand on his shoulder and another body settles in next to him where Joe just was. It’s Grant. Babe’s mouth is still open, his eyes on Joe’s back, but then he stretches, turns back around, and falls back against the opposite side of the foxhole.

Joe and Chuck don’t say a word about it. Babe has a mind to, but he falls asleep with his shoulder against his sergeant’s and sleeps a full four hours for the first time since they lost Muck and the others. When he wakes up, they’re still there, an uncomfortable, cramped hole full of cold limbs and the stale scent of cigarette smoke. The three of them climb out of the foxhole, sling their rifles over their shoulders, and head to chow together. The snow’s still falling, and when the shelling starts, it’s around noon, according to Shifty, and Babe is so tired of the trees splintering apart to spill the blood of Easy’s men that he thinks he could go his whole life without ever seeing winter again.

It’s not his fault: a tree falls over his foxhole and traps him. _Again_. He yells, desperate, panic settling, wondering if anyone’s out there—maybe this time the krauts finally got him—and then the branches of the tree are being ripped aside; Joe and Chuck reach down and haul him out, each putting an hand on his shoulder and back as he stumbles to his feet.

Doc Roe gives Babe a look when he says, “I’m fine, y’know, a tree fell on me, is all,” in that strained, biting tone of his to one of the replacements whose eyes are too wide and clear for a place like this. Babe pretends he doesn’t see it, but then he realizes Doc is shifting his gaze over his shoulder; when he turns partway, he ends up bumping shoulders with Joe. Grant is with Lipton, talking in a low tone a few feet away, but Babe doesn’t move, and neither does Joe.

It’s like that until they get to Foy—sharing foxholes and standing and huddling close together as the world turned white and whiter still around them—and then there’s a roof over their heads for the first time in months. There are bedrolls available, and most of the company shuffles off after the choir sings them into another state of mind (warm, finally, and numb). Babe thinks he has enough energy to make it to the basement, but then Grant and Lieb get up from their spots in the pew ahead of him, shuffle back, and plop down beside him, movements heavy and final. Slow with exhaustion, they end up falling asleep like that, leaning against one another on the wooden bench.

It’s the best sleep they’ve had since they got to Bastogne.

After Foy, they’re off again. They don’t spend many more nights out in the cold dark after that—burnt-out barns beat Bastogne any day—but when they do, Babe always manages to find his way to them, or Chuck finds him and then they find Joe, or Joe and Chuck find him, or something like that. A foxhole, a meal, patrol duty, it doesn’t matter.

Second platoon is close, sure—but between the three of them, there’s an air, an energy, something that tugs at Joe’s ribs when he doesn’t have either Babe or Chuck in sight. Babe can feel it in his gut, the familiarity, the _surety_ that comes with being beside them, with them, breathing in sync. And Chuck, it’s in his chest—something light, something the war forged but can’t touch unless one of them gets hit.

The three of them—silently, individually—liken these feelings to some of the other men in their company, like Winters and Nixon, Lipton and Speirs.

They reach Haguenau, and for the first time in a long time, they taste of civilization again: beds; a roof over their heads; two-to-three meals a day that amount to more than half-assed bullshit K-rations ever did. The winter isn’t as harsh here—it’s fading fast, just like people say the war is—but Babe is always chilled to the bone, except when he’s up late on watch and Chuck and Joe end up sliding their backs against the wall next to him until their shoulder to shoulder, until the night’s over and they turn in for some shuteye. They don’t say much about it, but Chuck and Joe feel the same. They’re cold under the stream of hot water, in the comfort of a bed with sheets pulled over them, in clean uniforms and proper winter footwear. That dissipates, though, when they crowd together—touch hands, bump shoulders, lean against another’s side—when they share a pack of Lucky Strikes and a beat up lighter.

One night, Babe falls asleep alone. It’s after Jackson dies. He dreams about Julian, about Jackson, both of them bleeding out in the snow. Doc Roe is trying to save them but there’s no hope, no way to help. They die and Babe, in his dream, is rooted to the spot, chest constricting, a yell tearing its way silently up the back of his throat with no way to get out—

And then he’s being shaken awake. Two sets of hands are digging into his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt, tearing the sheets off him. He doesn’t know if he’s been screaming, or crying, or both, but when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out. Not a damn thing. That’s fine, though—Chuck and Joe are pulling him onto the floor, hooking their arms around him until they’re a tangle of limbs and Babe’s breathing has slowed to somewhere far enough from hysteria that he makes a small sound in his throat, trying to tell them he’s fine. The back of his neck burns—no one fucking needs this bullshit right now—but they don’t let go of him. Not until the sun rises, not until they can hear the creak of floorboards and hear the rest of their platoon arrives.

There’s no judgement in Chuck and Joe’s faces, not once, not ever. Babe wonders if something like this was meant to happen.

They’re close, close as they can manage until they move out. Winter dissolves into spring and it’s like they can breathe again, finally. The blinding white of the snow has given way to dark greens and browns, lush without constant shellings and blood-loss.

 

All three of their hearts are full to bursting.

Austria doesn’t look like it ever saw war. Never even fucking heard of it, Joe thinks, and he burns from the inside out. He gets orders to track down a German officer and there’s ash in his lungs, something heavy and _angry_ in him, sitting on his chest. He doesn’t tell Babe or Chuck: he takes Skinny and Web. Web’s fucking useless—doesn’t even shoot the fuck—and when he drives back, he doesn’t feel any better. He’s still angry. He’s still hurting.

When he gets back, he finds himself among familiar company. Gets it out of his head. Shifty, Frank, Tab, Malark, and Bull. Again. It’s not fine, but it’s better than thinking about all the death. It’s better than thinking about the war still raging on against Japan even though Germany’s surrendered. The rest of the day is hazy, but the weight subsides a little.

Joe (smoking with Shifty) and Babe (talking to Doc) are in different rooms when they get the news: Grant’s been shot. By an American soldier. A fucking _drunk_ —

There’s static. There’s crackling. And then somewhere along the line, Babe realizes that the world’s gone fuzzy and he’s suddenly cold and the words have left him, the wind gone right out. It’s like a punch to the gut, except the pain is sharp, cutting, brutal. It takes a moment for the news to register before he’s on his feet. Bull thumps his shoulder, bringing him back down from the panic-induced high his mind is experiencing—and then he finds himself being pulled forward in the rush. Someone shoved him. He nearly tripped—but Joe reaches out, catching him by the sleeve of his jacket, righting him, keeping up his pace.

Joe’s got a cigarette in his mouth but his eyes are a cold kind of blazing, the kind he got when he was picking of SS officers back when Winters led them to a company of German soldiers. When Joe swallows, it’s like someone shoved something down his fucking throat, and now it’s hard to breathe, hard to do anything but make sure Babe is next to him and put one foot in front of the other.

The both of them only come to their senses when they find the fucker who shot him. He’s drunk off his ass, laughing when they pull him off the road and back into the house. No one’s gentle with him; they shove him through a door, he hits the ground, and he’s kicked, picked back up and sat in a chair in the middle of the room. Babe and Joe don’t land a hit on the guy. They burn, silently, keeping their stricken thoughts—their fear, and a new kind of grief wanting to rear its ugly head if someone comes back with bad news—to themselves.

Then Speirs comes in. The guy hasn’t sobered up some; he laughs at the captain and he gets hit across the face with Speirs’ sidearm for his insolence. Speirs points his gun—some of the men look away. They’re all so tired of war, of killing, of their friends dying—but they expect the shot to come. They wait for it.

It never comes.

Speirs leaves the fucker to the MPs. He tells them Grant’s going to make it.

Babe falls into a chair at the back of the room upon hearing the news. Relief is quick to empty him of his fear and fill him back up, but not all the way. His limbs become leaden. His chest constricts, but he’s not swallowing glass and gunpowder anymore. He can feel the blinding fear, though, that he kept down. Men are slowly filing out of the room, and he puts his head in his hands and exhales.

A weight drops beside him. He doesn’t need to look up to see that it’s Joe. They sit in silence like that for a long time before Babe leans back in his chair and scrubs a hand across his face.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Joe mutters, the first words spoke between them in the now-empty room.

Babe has nothing to say to that.

After a night with no sleep, Babe and Joe visit Chuck at the hospital. He got surgery, got his head patched up. The kraut brain surgeon assures them that he’s going to live. Babe says, “I’ll fuckin’ believe it when he opens his fuckin’ eyes,” and Joe nods. They sit next to the bed in wing for as long as Babe can stand. He can’t last, though. Not after seeing Toye and Guarnere get hit. Not after losing so many people.

Speirs comes in a few hours later. Dismisses them. Assures them he’ll keep an eye on Grant. Babe is relieved to be out of the hospital; Joe complies with only a few terse seconds of hesitation.

They cycle back and forth from the grounds to the hospital, sometimes with the other Easy men, sometimes just the two of them.

Speirs is the one to be there when Chuck wakes up. Word travels fast and Easy is filling up the hospital, bit by bit. Relief is a palpable thing here; there’s no fucking way death could squeeze through the bodies in the hall to get to the sergeant or anyone else in that hospital, not on their watch.

Babe walks in with Garcia. The men lean to the side so he can make it through to see him. Chuck looks like shit—but he’s alive, _he’s alive_ , and Babe can’t fucking believe it. Someone behind him asks him if he needs to be pinched. Luz, he finds out later, gets a smack over the head for that. The men filter out after a while, bit by bit, until it’s just Speirs and Lipton on the other side of the hospital wing, talking in low tones for a few moments before heading out after the rest of men, heads bent close together as Babe takes a seat by Chuck’s side, all the fight going out of him in a single exhale.

It takes him a moment to realize that Chuck is looking at him funny. No, not funny. He—he looks worried, and, oh shit, Babe doesn’t know how to deal with this. Should he call for Speirs? A nurse?

“Where’s Joe?” Chuck asks hoarsely, and the next wave of relief that hits Babe is so intense that he says, “fuckin’ _Christ_ , Chuck, you scared me there for a minute,” and assures him that Joe is fine. Well, fine’s not the right word, but he hasn’t been hit. Not by any rogue Germans, and not by any fucking replacement from I or D or B company.

They talk for a while—about nothing, about Philly, about Chuck’s hometown—and Babe’s in the middle of mimicking Doc Roe’s accent when Joe walks in, hand shoved in his pockets. He stops abruptly and takes in the scene: Babe’s doing a terrible impression of Roe; Chuck is sitting up in bed; Chuck is _smiling_.

“Jesus,” Joe says, causing both of them to look at them, “way to warn a guy.”

He falls into chair beside Babe. They scoot across the floor until they’re close enough to clasp a hand on Chuck’s arm, their grasps firm and warm. In broad daylight, they can’t hold each other like they do in the night, not when the people here won’t understand a damn thing, not when some replacement could walk in and fuck everything up for them, but they lean in close, lapsing in and out of silence.

“Doc says I can visit him in Louisiana,” Babe says.

Joe raises an eyebrow. “You even know where that is?” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Are we gonna have to help you find it?”

Chuck laughs. It hurts him to, but he laughs. It scrapes against the ceiling because he’s been out for days, but, god—

He doesn’t remember much from before. He _does_ , however, remember coming out of the dark with one hell of an aching head. He remembers it took him a moment to realize where he was, for him to absorb what Speirs tried to tell him in a quiet voice. He remembers waking up and seeing Babe coming towards him, eyes shining, but no Joe—Joe wasn’t in sight—

Chuck’s heart skips a beat in his chest; he blinks once, twice, three times. He’s got this warm, light feeling around his heart and he’s smiling, mouth hurting, and there’s nothing in the world that’s brighter than how he feels on the inside now that Babe and Joe are beside him. Eventually, his eyelids start to droop, and they usher him off to sleep, but they stay the whole night by his side.

Then the news comes a couple of days later: the war ends. Japan surrenders. They can go home. The men head back to their bunks to pack up, some in a hurry, some in a daze, most experiencing a profound feeling of disbelief, but Babe and Joe head to the hospital, deliver the news.

The nurse advises against any extraneous activity that might stress the sergeant, but they pull each other in, briefly, into an embrace before they start to laugh, amazed, still somewhat disbelieving the news.

“Chuck,” Babe says quietly, once the three of them are alone again, because there’s something stirring in his chest and it’s this anxiety he can’t name but has to talk about in order to get it out of him, “what—after the war—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Joe says, jabbing his elbow into the Philly boy’s side, but there’s no heat behind the words. “We’re all goin’ home.”

Babe and Chuck hear it: there’s an unsaid _together_ that hangs in the air between them.

It’s enough to calm them, to clear the corners of the room of their ghosts and the memories of trees splintering apart. It’s enough, more than that, and each of the three men are so full of light, it’s a wonder the sky isn't blinded by them.

The sun comes out behind a cloud and shines through the window, illuminating motes of dust.

Chuck smiles; Babe laughs; Joe passes them each a cigarette.

It’s enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
